Calcifer was very interested. "I knew he came from foreign parts," he said. "But this sounds like another world. Clever of the Witch to send the curse in from there. Very clever all round. That's magic I admire, using something that exists anyway and turning it round into a curse. I did wonder about it when you and Michael were reading it the other day. That fool Howl told her too much about himself."

Sophie did not see much point in blackening Howl's name to the King, now that the Witch had caught up with him. But Howl said it was more important than ever. "I shall need everything I've got just to escape the Witch," he said. "I can't have the King after me as well."

So the following afternoon Sophie put on her new clothes and sat feeling very fine, if rather stiff, waiting for Michael to get ready and for Howl to finish in the bathroom. While she waited, she told Calcifer about the strange country where Howl's family lived. It took her mind off the King.

Sophie gazed at Calcifer's thin blue face. It did not surprise her to find Calcifer admired the curse, any more than it surprised her when he called Howl a fool. He was always insulting Howl. But she never could work out if Calcifer really hated Howl. Calcifer looked so evil anyway that it was hard to tell.

"You look wonderfully rich and stately!" Michael said to her.

Calcifer moved his orange eyes to look into Sophie's. "I'm scared too," he said. "I shall suffer with Howl if the Witch catches him. If you don't break the contract before she does, I won't be able to help you at all."

"She does me credit," said Howl. "apart from that awful old stick."

"Some people," said Sophie, "are thoroughly self-centered. This stick goes with me. I need it for moral support."

Before Sophie could ask more, Howl came dashing out of the bathroom looking his very finest, scenting the room with roses and yelling for Michael. Michael clattered downstairs in his new blue velvet. Sophie stood up and collected her trusty stick. It was time to go.

Howl looked at the ceiling, but he did not argue.

They took their stately way into the streets of Kingsbury. Sophie of course looked back to see what the castle was like here. She saw a big, arched gateway surrounding a small black door. The rest of the castle seemed to be a clank stretch of plastered wall between two carved stone houses.

"Before you ask," said Howl, "it's really just a disused stable. This way."

They walked through the streets, looking at least as fine as any of the passerbys. Not that many people were about.

"By the way," Howl said, "Mrs. Pentstemmon will call you Mrs. Pendragon. Pendragon's the name I go under here."

Kingsbury was a long way south and it was a bakingly hot day there. The pavements shimmered. Sophie discovered another disadvantage to being old: you felt queer in hot weather. The elaborate buildings wavered in front of her eyes. She was annoyed, because she wanted to look at the place, but all she had was a dim impression of golden domes and tall houses.

"I get by quite well with a plain name," Sophie said as they turned into a blessedly narrow, cool street.

"For disguise," said Howl. "Pendragon's a lovely name, much better than Jenkins."

"Whatever for?" said Sophie.

"We can't all be Mad Hatters," said Howl.

Mrs. Pentstemmon's house was gracious and tall, near the end of the narrow street. It had orange trees in tubs on either side of its handsome front door. This door was opened by an elderly footman in black velvet, who led them into a wonderfully cool black-and-white checkered marble hall, where Michael tried secretly to wipe sweat off his face. Howl, who always seemed to be cool, treated the footman as an old friend and made jokes to him.

"Ah, my dear Howell," she said, holding out a gold-mesh mitten.

The footman passed them on to a page boy in red velvet. Sophie, as the boy led them ceremoniously up polished stairs, began to see why this made good practice for meeting the King. She felt as if she were in a palace already. When the boy ushered them into a shaded drawing room, she was sure even a palace could not be this elegant. Everything in the room was blue and gold and white, and small and fine. Mrs. Pentstemmon was finest of all. She was tall and thin, and she sat bolt upright in a blue-and-gold embroidered chair, supporting herself rigidly with one hand, in a gold-mesh mitten, on a gold-topped cane. She wore old-gold silk, in a very stiff and old-fashioned style, finished off with an old-gold headdress not unlike a crown, which tied in a large old-gold bow beneath her gaunt eagle face. She was the finest and most frightening lady Sophie had ever seen.

Howl bent and kissed the mitten, as he was obviously supposed to. He did it very gracefully, but it was rather spoiled from the back view by Howl flapping his other hand furiously at Michael behind his back. Michael, a little too slowly, realized he was supposed to stand by the door beside the page boy. He backed there in a hurry, only too pleased to get as far away from Mrs. Pentstemmon as he could.

"Mrs. Pentstemmon, allow me to present my old mother," Howl said, waving his hand at Sophie. Since Sophie felt just like Michael, Howl had to flap his hand at her too.

"Forgive my not standing up, Mrs. Pendragon," Mrs. Pentstemmon said. "My health is not so good. It forced me to retire from teaching three years ago. Pray sit down, both of you."

"I am eighty-six," Mrs. Pentstemmon announced. "How old are you, my dear Mrs. Pendragon?

"Charmed. Delighted," said Mrs. Pentstemmon, and she held her gold mitten out to Sophie. Sophie was not sure if Mrs. Pentstemmon meant her to kiss the mitten as well, but she could not bring herself to try. She laid her own hand on the mitten instead. The hand under it felt like an old, cold claw. After feeling it, Sophie was quite surprised that Mrs. Pentstemmon was alive.

Trying not to shake with nerves, Sophie sat grandly in the embroidered chair opposite Mrs. Pentstemmon's, supporting herself on her stick in what she hoped was the same elegant way.

Howl spread himself gracefully in a chair next to it. He looked quite at home, and Sophie envied him.

"Don't you think I did any of me myself, then?" Howl asked. 'Put in just a few touches of my own?"

"So old?" Mrs. Pentstemmon said with what may have been slight, stately envy. "How lucky you are to move so nimbly still."

Mrs. Pentstemmon gave him a look which told Sophie she had been a teacher at least as fierce as Miss Angorian. "I am talking to your mother," she said. "I daresay she is as proud of you as I am. We are two old ladies who both had a hand in forming you. You are, one might say, our joint creation."

"Ninety," Sophie said, that being the first high number that came into her head.

"Oh, yes, she's so wonderfully nimble," Howl agreed, "that sometimes there's no stopping her."

If Sophie had not been so nervous herself, she might have laughed at the expression on Howl's face. She had obviously not expected this to happen at all. But he got up, with only a light shrug, made a slight warning face at Sophie, and shooed Michael out of the room ahead of him. Mrs. Pentstemmon turned her rigid body very slightly to watch them go. Then she nodded at the page boy, who scuttled out of the room too. After that, Mrs. Pentstemmon turned herself back toward Sophie, and Sophie felt more nervous than ever.

"A few, and those not altogether to my liking," Mrs. Pentstemmon replied. "But you will not wish to sit here and hear yourself being discussed. You will go down and sit on the terrace, taking your page boy with you, where Hunch will bring you both a cool drink. Go along."

"I prefer him with black hair," Mrs. Pentstemmon announced. "That boy is going to the bad."

"Not the servitor," said Mrs. Pentstemmon. "I do not think he is clever enough to cause me concern. I am talking about Howell, Mrs. Pendragon."

"Oh," said Sophie, wondering why Mrs. Pentstemmon only said "going." Howl had surely arrived at the bad long ago.

"Who? Michael?" Sophie said, bewildered.

"He is always very careful about his appearance," Sophie agreed, wondering why she was putting it so mildly.

"And always was. I am careful about my appearance too, and I see not harm in that," said Mrs. Pentstemmon. "But what call has he to be walking around in a charmed suit? It is a dazzling attraction charm, directed at ladies -- very well done, I admit, and barely detectable even to my trained eyes, since it appears to have been darned into the seams -- and one which will render him almost irresistible to ladies. This represents a downward trend into black arts which must surely cause you some motherly concern, Mrs. Pendragon."

"Take his whole appearance," Mrs. Pentstemmon said sweepingly. 'Look at his clothes."

"I assure you it is so," said Mrs. Pentstemmon. "This is why I was anxious to see you, Mrs. Pendragon. Howell, you see, was my last pupil and by far my best. I was about to retire when he came to me out of a foreign land. I thought my work was done when I trained Benjamin Sullivan-whom you probably know better as Wizard Suliman, rest his soul! -- and procured him the post of Royal Magician. Oddly enough, he came from the same country as Howell. Then Howell came, and I saw at a glance that he had twice the imagination and twice the capabilities, and, though I admit he had some faults of character, I knew he was a force for good. Good, Mrs. Pendragon. But what is he now?"

Sophie thought uneasily about the gray-and-scarlet suit. She had darned the seams without noticing it had anything particular about it. But Mrs. Pentstemmon was an expert on magic, and Sophie was only an expert on clothes.

Mrs. Pentstemmon put both gold mittens on top of her stick and canted her stiff body so that both her trained and piercing eyes stared into Sophie's. Sophie felt more and more nervous and uneasy. "My life is nearly over," Mrs. Pentstemmon announced. "I have felt death tiptoeing close for some time now."

"Oh, I'm sure that isn't so," Sophie said, trying to sound soothing. It was hard to sound like anything with Mrs. Pentstemmon staring at her like that.

"Something has happened to him," Mrs. Pentstemmon said, still staring piercingly at Sophie. "And I am determined to put that right before I die."

"What do you think has happened?" Sophie asked uncomfortably.

"I must rely on you to tell me that," said Mrs. Pentstemmon. "My feeling is that he has gone the same way as the Witch of the Waste. They tell me she was not wicked once -- though I have this only on hearsay, since she is older that either of us and keeps herself young by her arts. Howell has gifts in the same order as hers. It seems as if those of high ability cannot resist some extra, dangerous stroke of cleverness, which results in a fatal flaw and begins a slow decline to evil. Do you, by any chance, have a clue what it might be?"

"What indeed?" Sophie said.

Calcifer's voice came into Sophie's mind, saying, "The contract isn't doing either of us any good in the long run." She felt a little chilly, in spite of the heat of the day blowing through the open windows of the shaded, elegant room. "Yes," she said. "He's made some sort of contract with his fire demon."

Mrs. Pentstemmon's hands shook a little on her stick. "That will be it. You must break that contract, Mrs. Pendragon."

"I would if I knew how," Sophie said.

"Surely your own maternal feelings and your own strong magic gift will tell you how," Mrs. Pentstemmon said. "I have been looking at you, Mrs. Pendragon, though you may not have noticed --"

"-- and I like your gift," said Mrs. Pentstemmon. 'It brings life to things, such as that stick in your hand, which you have evidently talked to, to the extent that it has become what the layman would call a magic wand. I think you would not find it too hard to break that a contract."

"Yes, but I need to know what the terms of it are," Sophie said. "Did Howl tell you I was a witch, because if he did --"

"Oh, I noticed, Mrs. Pentstemmon," Sophie said.

"He did not. There is no need to be coy. You can rely on my experience to know these things," said Mrs. Pentstemmon. Then, to Sophie's relief, she shut her eyes. It was like a strong light being turned off. "I do not now, nor do I wish to know about such contracts," she said.

Her cane wobbled again, as if she might be shuddering. Her mouth quirked into a line, suggesting she had unexpectedly bitten on a peppercorn. "But I now see," she said, "what has happened to the Witch. She made a contract with a fire demon and, over the years, that demon has taken control of her. Demons do not understand good and evil. But they can be bribed into a contract, provided the human offers them something valuable, something only humans have. This prolongs the life of both human and demon, and the human gets the demon's magic power to add to his or her own." Mrs. Pentstemmon opened her eyes again. "That is all I can bear to say on the subject," she said, "except to advise you to find out what that demon got. Now I must bid you farewell. I have to rest awhile."

And like magic, which it probably was, the door opened and the page boy came in to usher Sophie out of the room. Sophie was extremely glad to go. She was all but squirming with embarrassment by then. She looked back at Mrs. Pentstemmon's rigid, upright form as the door closed and wondered if Mrs. Pentstemmon would have made her feel this bad if she had really and truly been Howl's old mother. Sophie rather thought she would. "I take my hat off to Howl for standing her as a teacher for more than a day!" she murmured to herself.

"Madam?" asked the page boy, thinking Sophie was talking to him.

"I said go slowly down the stairs or I can't keep up," Sophie told him. Her knees were wobbling. "You young boys dash about so," she said.

The page boy took her slowly and considerately down the shiny stairs. Halfway down, Sophie recovered enough from Mrs. Pentstemmon's personality to think of some of the things Mrs. Pentstemmon had actually said. She had said Sophie was a witch. Oddly enough, Sophie accepted this without any trouble at all. That explained the popularity of certain hats, she thought. It explained Jane Farrier's Count Whatsit. It possibly explained the jealously of the Witch of the Waste. It was as if Sophie had always known this. But she had thought it was not proper to have a magic gift because she was the eldest of three. Lettie had been far more sensible about such things.

Then she thought of the gray-and-scarlet suit and nearly fell downstairs with dismay. She was the one who had put the charm on that. She could hear herself now, murmuring to it. "Built to pull in the girls!" she had told it. And of course it did. It had charmed Lettie that day in the orchard. Yesterday, somewhat disguised, it must have had its effect on Miss Angorian too.

Oh, dear! Sophie thought. I've gone and doubled the number of hearts he'll have broken! I must get that suit off him somehow!

She shook her head. "After Mrs. Pentstemmon," she said, "the King of Ingary will seem just like an ordinary person."

Sophie certainly did not wish to see the King. But she thought of what Calcifer had said. If the King commanded Howl to go into the Waste and the Witch caught him, Sophie's own chance of being young again would have gone too.

Howl, in that same suit, was waiting in the cool black-and-white hall with Michael. Michael nudged Howl in a worried way as Sophie came slowly down the stairs behind the page boy.

Howl looked saddened. "You seem a bit ragged," he said. "I think we'd better skip seeing the King. I'll go blacken my own name when I make your excuses. I can say my wicked ways have made you ill. That could be true, from the look of you."